


tim mcgraw

by winchysteria



Series: t-swift anthology [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Teenagers, Based on a Taylor Swift Song, Fluff, M/M, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-03
Updated: 2016-05-03
Packaged: 2018-06-06 02:47:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,377
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6734836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/winchysteria/pseuds/winchysteria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>from the OG taylor swift album, the song that always got my 12-year-old heart aching: tim mcgraw. <strike>nobody asked for country destiel but here it is anyway</strike></p><p> </p><p> <em>He said the way my blue eyes shined</em><br/><em>Put those Georgia stars to shame that night</em><br/><em>I said: "That's a lie."</em><br/><em>Just a boy in a Chevy truck</em><br/><em>That had a tendency of gettin' stuck</em><br/><em>On back roads at night</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	tim mcgraw

**Author's Note:**

> i know the song is kind of angsty but angst is for stronger people than i. also we're just....not going to give this a location....all redneck information is based on the midwestern rednecks i know who are not True Swiftworthy rednecks so i can't place this in the south without doing a lot of research i'm too lazy for  
> ~part of the ongoing project in which i return to my sappy romantic roots by turning as much of the taylor swift discography into destiel as i possibly can~  
> [and here i am on tumblr!](http://winchysteria.tumblr.com/)

Castiel will tell anyone who asks that he hates all country music.  _Hates it,_ hates it, the way you can only loathe music you've grown up listening to, music you could sing in your sleep. There's just something so smug about it, so self-assured in its anger and sadness, so sickly sweet in its romance. He always finds himself wondering if people really feel all these things so intensely. It's just uncomfortable to hear.

 _"No,_ Dean,  _NO,_ I swear-" Castiel scrabbles for the tuning dial.

"Cas, baby, why so tense?" Dean bats his hands away from the truck's radio. "Let the dulcet tones of-"

"Of the literal son of Satan himself and an overused acoustic guitar? Let them do what to me? Because whatever they're doing now, I don't like it." Castiel revels in Dean's full-body laughter, the way he curls in toward the steering wheel. He's still trying to recover from being called  _baby._

It's not like Dean hasn't always called him that. But he also called his horrifyingly bulky 60's pickup truck _baby_ , and basically all of his friends, and his baseball team when there was a close game on television, and any engine he's trying to coax to life. As Anna likes to put it, any given object in the world is basically one wink away from trying to take Dean Winchester home. But sometime in the past months, sometime in the slow way his best friend has held his gaze longer and longer, the pet names and gentle contact have started zinging down Castiel's spine.

Dean is refocused on the road, which is more bumpy than muddy after several days of hard-baking sunshine. They're a month into their last summer before college, and where Castiel is gently toasted from weekdays landscaping and weekends at the swimming hole, Dean is practically buried under freckles. The July moonlight catches on his cowlick and the sunbleached dusting of hair over his arms, glints along his eyelashes.

When Dean looks over to Castiel's side of the bench seat, Castiel holds his appreciative glance, lets himself be caught. After a leisurely second, he leans back onto the frame of the truck's open window. "I can't believe I let you assault my ears this way," he says, trailing his fingers through the warm air passing the truck.

"Too tired to fight me?" Dean asks, a laugh in his voice.

Castiel hums assent. It _is_ practically the middle of the night, and the Winchester Family Fourth's Eve Fireworks Show took a lot out of him. He tucks his head against the wall of the cab, vaguely aware of Dean reaching across to genially muss up his hair. The day has cooled from aggressive midday heat to something much pleasanter, and he feels warm and safe and the music is actually all right just for now, and then-

"Uh, Cas?" Dean says carefully.

The truck is coughing unhappily, and Castiel straightens up with some alarm but no enthusiasm. "Dean,  _no._ This is not happening on 40th, in the dead of night. It just isn't."

Dean shoots him a guilty grin as he guides the truck into the long grass on the side of the road. Castiel stares long enough that his best friend starts to actually wilt, but he can't hold out. "Dean," he says gravely, resting his hand over Dean's on the steering wheel. "I know I have always had to compete with this truck for your affections, but I think it's time I won. I would never betray you this way."

There's a delay, Dean looking at their hands on the steering wheel for a second, before he starts to laugh. "You just might be right, Cas," he says, before shaking off his friend's hand to reach for the volume dial.

They sit for a second longer, cicadas and twangy guitar chirping over each other in the muggy night. Baby No. 1 has died in a place Castiel might be able to forgive her for, the curve of road that dips closest to a small, silver lake that he and Dean take Sam fishing at sometimes. There isn't a beach, per se, but there is a bank and a short grassy hill that are pleasant for sitting and dangling one's feet. For a groggy moment, he feels something in him thrum peacefully at the sight of moonlight glittering off the waves.

"Are you going to turn the car off?" Castiel asks, when he notices.

"In a minute," Dean says, grinning inexplicably at the radio before he swings his legs out of the truck.

Dean jogs around to Castiel's side of the cab, opens the door, and stands for a second, either expectant or shy- Castiel can't really tell. "Are we sharing Tim McGraw with the great outdoors?" Castiel says, the end of the question hanging open.

For another half-second, nothing happens. Castiel wipes his palms on his jeans for no reason he wants to explain. Dean looks really, unfairly good, wearing that look that's now definitely apprehensive and a faded t-shirt that Castiel abruptly realizes is his. Dean nervously runs a hand along his jaw before he stretches it out to Castiel. It takes a moment to land.

"Really?" Castiel asks softly.

Dean can only reply with a smile and a helpless shrug, and it's as Castiel takes his best friend's hand and lets himself be pulled in that he feels himself matching that smile. All at once, he's grounded at four points like a tent: Dean's right hand, warm on the small of his back; his left, fingers intertwined with Castiel's; the gentle rush of the waves on the lake; and the ache in his cheeks as he smiles harder than he can ever remember doing. Neither of them can dance any more than a soft, hopeful sway, but that seems exactly right. His face is warm, perfectly comfortable with the cool summer breeze slipping across it, and he's less shy with every second about pressing into Dean. 

The song is completely overwrought, something about whiskey and lighthouses and need, but Castiel still means it when he says "I think this is the nicest I have ever felt."

It feels too raw and purposeful to take back, and he doesn't want to. His lips are pressed into the thin cloth above Dean's collarbone. He can feel Dean's contented hum in every corner of his body, and then Dean stepping back just a little. Any other second of his entire life, this would be reason for Castiel to panic, but not now, when he somehow knows to look up at Dean as long as it takes. "I feel like-" Dean starts.

"Like what?" Castiel prompts unhurriedly, raising Dean's knuckles to his lips.

"It's cheesy," Dean says with unbelievable warmth.

Castiel just nods, smiling into the back of Dean's hand. There is just enough room for that and Castiel's hand, intertwined, between their faces.

"I was just thinking about- there are so many stars out, especially here, especially tonight, and I'd like to be looking at you instead." Dean's voice is a little rough, a little self-conscious, and Castiel's chest tightens fondly as he releases his friend's hand.

It's slow, with the air of inevitability that comes with realizing this was the trajectory all along. Their noses bump, both of them trying to fight their smiles back down so they don't hit teeth, and Castiel's arms are looped around Dean's neck, and then he's kissing Dean. Somehow, it's all there: the galaxies of freckles, the years of trust, every idyllic moment of feeling time pass slower when they're together. Their lips are both a little dry, and it's more than wonderful. Castiel opens his mouth, runs a hand into Dean's hair, tilts further toward him like a slowly-crashing wave.

Castiel smiles infinitesimally when they pull away for a breath, forehead resting against Dean's. He's wasted so much time doing anything other than kissing Dean Winchester.

There is an overflow of happiness in Dean's gaze, but he has saved a corner to say that neither of them will ever waste another minute.

He tips back up to kiss his best friend in time to the guitar.

Castiel will tell anyone who asks that he hates all country music- except the one.

**Author's Note:**

> the actual tim mcgraw song referenced is called "i need you" and i had to listen to way too much of his music to pick the right one


End file.
